(estoy trabajando el poema)
I have not been able to compose a story, a poem. There was matter, but energy did not follow. Suddenly, a world of explanations dissapeared in a sunset bubble.
I feel tough as an automatic translator explaining how cute cats are. They are something else than strange words coming out from a computer. Am I a kind of ageing object, beginning to be dirty some over ?
The Renaissance symbolic crosswords of image, let them explain the plot of despiced love. Let them agonize in their non-sequitur. Birds don't bring heavy gifts.
This is so your golden person, a body of wealth as a happy sunrise, some jumping out smile, did not stay in the crowd of memory, did it mostly jump into forgetting, in the river of dispair of forgotten persons, the poverty of memory. So splendous palaces in Firenza and living counts and masterpieces. Mostly stays on my crowdy soul the single painting of your crying mascara, of the unpaintable hair of sea.
Uccello the painter did not fit as you to the name of light.
So you are many persons, as the actress, and you will hear.
Language has no connection to poetry, the sexual noise of the crying women and their invisible dancing, the voice of the dead, these are so unknown things to language !
I come to sex crowd of poverty and wealth, I don't want no more the insect of desire, the utter butter fly of its chains, flying onto my eyes.